


Bedevilled

by mnd1305



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Hermione Granger, Dark, Dark Hermione Granger, Death, Drug Abuse, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Out of Character Hermione Granger, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattooed Hermione Granger, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism, dramione - Freeform, hermione granger - Freeform, potion addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28693032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnd1305/pseuds/mnd1305
Summary: The war has destroyed them both, they want to tear each other down.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	1. Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> The tags might change as the story goes. 
> 
> Warnings: this story is dark. They are not minors. I am not trying to romanticize any of these themes in any possible way.

They were off. Those stupid, useless, fucking manacles were off. Although the purple rings around his wrists were still very prominent, the two heavy pieces of metal had been removed.

They had been weighing down his life for the past three months. Reminding him of how he ended up in a place like Azkaban. Wondering what his life would constitute once he got out. Asking himself multiple questions a day, about why they forced him to wear handcuffs if he had no energy nor will to escape. Did they not understand that Azkaban was the best place to be for a boy like him? As much as he wanted to leave this prison, he knew that being trapped in a cell was better than being unwanted by the people around him.

Even though his handcuffs had been replaced by bruises, he still felt trapped. He knew what was to come; he knew he was entering a new prison. He knew that even if he had access to things like old friends, showers, edible food, and things to pass his time― he felt as if he was entering hell on earth. In his mind, he wished that he could stay where he was and tuff the fucking handcuffs, just to escape going back  _ there _ .

He did not even want to think about it. About the people, about the past, about it all.

If he were sucked in, he would never make it out.

The worst part of it, everyone knew he was one of the 'lucky' ones. If you could even call them that. Just because you are forced to go back to one place that haunts your mind every hour of every day instead of staying locked up in a prison cell, does not make you a lucky person― but maybe that is how people picture it. They do not understand how awful it actually is to go back. They just assume that if it were their choice they would definitely choose to go to school over staying locked up in a prison cell.

Not him.

If he had a choice, he would be staying in Azkaban. Where he belongs.

He walked through the multiple set of gates, held by guards that gave him distasteful glances. He smirked back at them. 

He had not counted but he did notice the abnormally long walk to the entrance.  _ Why is it they need ten different gates?  _ He asked himself― honestly did they really think that people would go through that much trouble to get out of a place like this. It was not as bad as it seemed before. When students talked and gossiped about Azkaban, they made it seem like it was the worst place in the world. After a few weeks in residence, he realized it was not at all, what people viewed it as. Yes, it was dirty. Yes, the care was terrible. Yes, he had to endure daily torture. Overall, it was better than living with the Dark Lord.

After passing the immense amount of metal gates, he still had a long way to go to the entrance, where the supposed Floo Networks were located. Walking down the dark stony halls, he noticed how the pain was a little easier to bear now that his wrists were free.

The pain from the purple bruises left by the handcuffs diminished the pain from his mark. The one on his left forearm. The one that constantly burned. The one that caused searing pain at the slightest touch. The one he had no remedy for during his last few months.

That ugly fucking tattoo. He wished he never did have it. He wished he had just let Voldemort kill him, rather than take the mark. To live on with it for the rest of his life was more of a penalty than death itself.

If he could go back in time, he would have told Voldemort to fuck himself before he would have let the bloke ink his arm with that mark.

Even after months after his death, somehow it still hurt as much as the day he had it. It did not move anymore, thankfully. He hated that feeling more than the pain itself. It felt odd and unrealistic. When it used to move, all the nerves and parts laying under it felt as if they were being pinched and pulled out of his body. Like a snake slithering under his skin. He hated it.

He got through the next hall and discovered an empty lift waiting for him. Getting onto the lift reminded him of the Ministry and his father's trial in Sixth-year. Of his own trial just a few weeks ago. When he got his basic life sentence― going back to Hogwarts to finish school. All the other students from previous years had the choice, but not him. Nor the other Death Eater children who had aided or abetted Voldemort during the war. They all had to suffer the pain that they had caused during the last few years.

He scoffed; thinking about it was really just idiotic. Putting together war heroes and ex-Death Eaters together, did they honestly think that would work? He thought to himself. At least he would get a show out of it.

When the lift landed on the first floor, he watched the gates open as he walked out and closed back up when he made a few steps forwards. He kept walking, anxiously towards the next corner. He had no clue where he was going.

His shoes made obvious clacking noises as he took each step. He was dressed in the clothes he had been wearing the day they arrested him. Black dress slacks, black shirt, black blazer, black-tie, black dress shoes. They had not bothered to clean them; they were still dusty and covered in faded blood spots. The only different thing was the weight he had lost during his few months in prison made his clothes fit loosely. Not that he had not lost weight during the war. From the last day of Fifth-year to today, he had lost at least a dozen pounds. The Dark Lord deserved all the credit for that. A few months in prison had not helped either.

When he got to the end of the hall, he noticed a room brighter than the rest of the prison. It was the entrance. He walked down and made his way to the two glass doors that lead into the entrance. When they opened, he passed some kind of ward and caught sight of someone familiar. Dark green robes and her black and blond hair pinned back.

His mother.

She stood near one of the Floo Networks and played with the handle of her handbag. She always did that when she was nervous.

She turned her head when an alarm sounded that someone had entered the room and immediately made her way towards him.

"Draco," she said, engulfing him in a massive embrace. The breath caught in his lungs. She did not seem to care that he was filthy or how dirty his clothes were. She had just missed her son.

She rarely ever showed this much affection but I guess it serves right after having not seen your son in four months and not having Lucius scold you about it.

Draco tucked his head in the crook of her shoulder. At that moment, he felt a small piece of happiness for the first time in a long time. His mother had always been the one person he trusted the most in the world. She always sought the best for him, and she had done everything possible to keep him safe. Even during the war.

She pulled back with teary eyes and cupped his face with her palms. She took the time to examine him. The dark creases under his eyes, his piercing grey eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks, his defined nose. She had missed him more than anything had and she noticed everything that was different and that had changed in the past months.

"I think it's time we go home, don't you?" she asked.

He nodded; the words just would not roll off his tongue. Even if he tried speaking, the words just would not make sense. For a moment, while holding his mother - he forgot.

He forgot about all the damaging thoughts in his head washing constantly back and forth like the ocean's tide.

He forgot about the pain and suffering he constantly felt.

He forgot about everything, for a moment

She walked into the fireplace and disappeared shouting her location. He followed suit grabbing a fistful of Floo powder. He shouted, "Malfoy Manor."

* * *

Hermione was sitting in a chair; she was reading a book. It was some textbook she had found wandering around the library in Grimmauld Place. The books in there had not been changed in years. They were definitely more than a few years old. Some of them seemed to have been there for centuries. The pages had turned yellow and were ripping every time she turned on the pages. The bindings were falling apart. The shelves were full of dust.

If it were not for the location, she would have hexed the owner of the house for not taking better care of their books.

She had spent at least five hours examining the works displayed in the library. She had been to Grimmauld Place a few dozen times during the war but she had never gotten the chance to spend any time there. They had always been on the run, looking for somewhere to hide or she had been busy with Order meetings. She had only just discovered there was a library a few months ago.

Every day, she would spend hours reading, researching, and try to forget, there. It was peaceful and it gave her a sense of warmth as if she were back at the Hogwarts library during First-year. It definitely felt like it at times.

Summer was almost over and she knew she would be back there in just a few days. Although it was real, it did not feel like it. Going back to Hogwarts was... troubling.

She did not understand how she felt about the idea. Sure, she was slightly enthusiastic and all but, she felt nervous and horrible going back there after the war - after everything that happened. She did not know how to feel about the situation. She could not comprehend how awful she felt when thinking about Hogwarts.

Staying her whole life locked up in the library at 12 Grimmauld Place was certainly, not how she planned to spend the rest of her life. Finishing school was not the worst idea, at least she could have a distraction from her mind if she was busy keeping up with classes. The thought of seeing old friends did not even bring her joy anymore. The only people she talked to were Harry and Ginny. She and Ron were still on the outskirts of their short-lived relationship, even if you could call it that.

She and Ron were too complicated, in meaning - they were too similar. They did not work as romantic partners and unfortunately, they had discovered it after they had slept together. After only a few weeks, she had noticed how they did not fit together like puzzle pieces. The pieces were either too big or too small to intertwine and place themselves, to fit as one.

Therefore, they ended it― mutually.

They had not really spoken since. Unless small greetings every time the four of them would meet at the pub for drinks counted.

Ron and Harry had applied for Auror training during the summer. The Ministry had obviously accepted two-thirds of the Golden trio to become Aurors, there was never any doubt in that. Apparently, saving the wizarding world from a dark wizard had its benefits. Hermione on the other hand had declined when Harry had offered. When she was younger, she had always imagined becoming an Auror but now after everything she had gone through, she realized it was not the job for her. She had run from dark wizards all her life; she had no intention of running after them.

Now when she thought about her future, everything was mixed. She had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. She supposed going back to school could help with that dilemma even if she had no interest in what she would do after school anymore.

She was passing through a potion book; she had read it before― sometime during Third-year when she used to sneak in the restricted section. It specialized in Wolfsbane and all werewolf potions. It contained recipes for pain relief, descriptions, and tips. It was a one-on-one guide on how to survive being a werewolf.

Hermione snapped it shut and placed it back on the shelf. After a few months of constant reading, she was starting to finish the collection. Most of the books she had either read before in her life or she read them sometime during the past four months. She was starting to get bored, even reading did not distract her enough anymore. She got up from her comfortable spot on the chair and walked over to one of the stacks.

The library was lined with four rows of books around the four other walls. Subject filed them all and there were at least more than a thousand books in the library, yet she had almost read them all. The stacks were built of mahogany wood and were hand-carved into beautiful pieces. There was a moving ladder placed to reach the top shelves and carpets or donned the ground beneath her feet. A few chairs and couches were placed in each corner. Everything about this library shouted luxury and wealth. Every book, every cushion, every carpet, every piece of furniture was old and rustic. If Hermione ever imagined what any Pureblood library would look like, this would be it. It was beautiful.

The books were mostly all wizard pieces or textbooks that could be found in the Hogwarts library. Although, Hermione had discovered a small shelf filled with works by muggle writers. Mostly classics such as The Catcher in the Rye, a few Shakespeare plays― all of which she had read, To Kill a Mockingbird, works by Jane Austen, Wuthering Heights, and even a few books by Charles Dickens.

Hermione had read every one of those works, multiple times...

She had gotten a little annoyed and tired of reading wizard wrote books and was probing for something more. Her desire had been answered the next day. As soon as she had found the muggle classics, she dove into them straight away. Reading every book, she could find, even if she had previously read them.

She had decided to start The Merchant of Venice that very afternoon. She slid down the stack and sat on the carpet. She examined the cover and opened the small book. The smell of old parchment engulfed her senses and brought her back to simpler times.

The witch was halfway through the play when a faint tapping on a near window interrupted her. She set the book down and got up, walking through the stacks. When the library went silent, once again she tried to look for something in the windows.

_ Tap, Tap, Tap _

Hermione turned in the opposite direction and was faced with a brown barn owl. A white envelope tied to its claws. She walked over, opening the glass, and let the owl plop down into the library. It sat on the windowsill and looked at her with big eyes. She took the envelope from the bird and noticed her name in an elegant scrawl. As she turned it, the seal was imprinted with an 'H'. She remembered that seal when she had gotten her acceptance letter and discovered she was a witch.

Questioning why Hogwarts was sending her a letter, she tore it open as the bird flew back away. A small scroll of parchment was placed inside the envelope. She unfolded and read. 

  
  


_ Dear Miss Granger, _

_ I apologize for my awful timing but I do have something to ask you. _

_ I am in dire need of someone to place as Head Girl for the school year, the choice is hard to make because I need someone who will be prepared and ready to take on the task. _

_ You are one of the people I trust the most who are coming back this year and I could not think of anyone else for the job. _

_ Again, I am sorry for asking you so late with only a few days to decide. _

_ If you do not wish to accept, I will completely understand and will wish you no hard feelings. _

_ I hope to hear from you soon, _

_ I hope you and your friends are well. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Headmistress McGonagall _


	2. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW : mentions of addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the Kudos!

She had contemplated her answer all night. Barely slept a wink. Wondering about the advantages and disadvantages of the situation. Thinking about every word in the letter, going over  _ every  _ detail. She mostly did this to avoid the undesirable question. Mostly because she had absolutely no clue what she wanted to do.

She had regretted her decision of not taking Dreamless Sleep, but she had been using them often recently in light of her recurring daily nightmares. Some might say she was starting to form a dependence on it, much like drugs. In a way, for her, it acted like drugs. It took away the pain of facing her demons in the moonlight and she quite enjoyed that feeling.

She liked the feeling of being above it all. The feeling of overpowering her own mind. With only just a touch of something chemical, she could escape the worst part of her day. It made her feel  _ superior—  _ a sentiment she had never experienced in her life.

The potion had in ways became part of her daily coping mechanisms.

The war caused a toll on the witch. Nothing brought her joy. She never had any sense of desire to stay, to live in this world.

Over the past few months, she started finding ways to cope with grief. To cope with whom she had lost. From how she lost herself in the midst of it all.

To find ways to take away the pain.

At first, she started talking to therapists and mind healers. She tried she  _ really  _ did.

It lasted for two weeks. 

They asked too many questions. They were insensitive and they could not understand how  _ The Brightest Witch of her Age  _ had broken down. Their minds could not comprehend that information and it caused Hermione the lack of support she needed. In all honesty, when she started explaining how she felt or why she did certain things— they cut her off by telling her that a girl like her was not broken, she was just confused with her emotions.

The Healers had told her to _ deal with it.  _

Afterwards, the nightmares kept getting worse. It would wake her more than once at night. Always the same recurring memory. It would never change and it was never different.

She would be pinned to the drawing-room floor at Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix would be searing her body with curses that stuck out from the tip of her wand. The curses caused every nerve, every joint, every bone, and every piece of her to burn. To feel like she was being ripped apart and skimmed alive. Her eyes would be pleading with mercy to a tall blond who stood and watched as if he  _ enjoyed  _ it— watching her shatter in front of him. Like he had waited for his completely  _ goddamn  _ life to watch, the scenes unfold and now he had a front-row seat.

The woman would then cut into her skin and mark her with a word. That word. The one she had been tormented by. The one that made people dislike her for something she could not control. The one she had been called by for years. _ That fucking slur. _ Now it was plastered on her skin, penetrated into her for as long as she lived.

She barely got any sleep, and when she did, the next nightmare was waiting just around the corner to strike.

She started taking a couple of drops of Dreamless Sleep before bed. It would rid her of nightmares or at least calm them down during the night. It worked, for the most part— but after weeks, she needed more. Her body was trying to push it. Push her to crave it, to not get enough satisfaction from that small amount. She started adding more every time she would consume. After four months, she took one or sometimes two vials before bed, almost every single night. In some ways, it was worse than drugs because, instead of taking away the pain for a few hours, it removed going back to the day she lost herself. She has to avoid reliving her worst nightmare. She escaped it.

After all, ever since she had started taking the potion as a regular occurrence, she had gained back all the forces she wished she had during the war. All those sleepless nights in the tent with Harry and Ron. She wished she could go back in time and had brought many vials of it before leaving for the hunt.

Drinking helped. When she would get drunk off a bottle of Firewhiskey, she woke up less during the night. The hangover could be cured with only a simple Pepper-Up potion but sometimes she caused herself less trouble just by taking Dreamless Sleep.

She drank every day but she tried to keep some kind of self-respect for herself to not get blackout drunk every night. Harry got worried and sometimes a little irritated when he found her passed out on the balcony. She knew that he was not trying to annoy her or anything and he was only just concerned. She had enough people that were concerned about her— she did not need her best friend to be too.

She kept a secret stash in her Hogwarts trunk, tucked away in the closet. She kept muggle and wizard alcohol in there. The muggle stuff was not as strong but it worked just fine on the days she ran out of Firewhiskey. She drank with her friends on Fridays but she was never fully satisfied after the night out.

Sometimes she would pick up supplies from the Apothecary in Diagon Alley and whip up a Euphoria Elixir or a Calming Draught. When she would use them, it brought her a sense as if the world had been lifted off her shoulders— for a few moments at least. When it all came crashing down, she was either even more miserable than she had been or she went through withdraws and ended up spending the rest of her day next to the loo reaching out her insides.

She picked up a horrid muggle habit only a few weeks after the final battle. She had been drinking her sorrows away in a bar in muggle London. The next thing she remembered, Theodore Nott had appeared next to her. She vaguely remembered him. He had been a Death Eater at the beginning of the war. Forced by his family and had never had any interest in the Dark Lord's pursuits. She had heard whispers and gossips about him and his involvement. He had defected two months before the final battle. During the war, he had not done anything unforgivable towards the resistance; he had been pardoned. They had started with an odd conversation filled with useless small talk. She was drunk, he was tipsy, and it only went up from there. They had talked about many things, deep things, things she had never told anyone— even Harry. It was easy with him, she had no fear of being judged or pitied while explaining her darkest secrets. He did not treat her differently; he did not walk on eggshells around her. Hermione even had fun with him. Because they both realized many of their problems were identical, only the stories behind them had been written differently.

After they had spent countless hours together, he had offered her a smoke while they walked around London. She took it and since then, it was almost as if they had a weekly ritual. They would meet up; either at Grimmauld, Theo's flat or somewhere semi-public, they would smoke, drink, and talk about their thoughts, emotions, lives. It was pretty much the highlight of her week.

Theo had been there for her when she needed someone. She had been there for Theo when he needed a friend.

The girl had found one more thing to help her forget about the tragedies of war.

Sex.

But not the romantic, caring, lovemaking type.

No— the rough, aggressive and meaningless sex.

She tried to find strangers most of the time, but most of them left her unsatisfied and bored. She had seen Dean Thomas during one of her weekly trips to Hogsmeade. The duo had chatted for a few moments and they decided to stop at Three Broomsticks for a conversation over Butterbeer. They had talked about everything. Dean was also going back to Hogwarts and they had bonded over the past for a while. Both of them realized at some point in their discussion, they were looking for the same thing. No strings attached, just sex. That night, the witch ended up naked in Dean's flat, something she never expected to happen. That was a month ago.

The demand was well... demanding.

She was not exactly sure how she felt about it. Her younger self would have been thrilled and jumping up and down at this opportunity. But she was not the old Hermione.

Not anymore 

Now when she thought about it, it brought her no joy, no good feeling. She honestly had no interest in bossing people around anymore. She wanted to lay low and diminish her 'Golden Girl' status.

_ Gods, she hated that name.  _

It was too sunny, too shiny, too perfect, and too cheerful. It did not fit how she was now. She was not sunny anymore. She was not a shiny person anymore. And she definitely was not cheerful anymore. She was not happy. Some days, she hated herself so much. She hated that she had gotten out of the war with only a few battle scars. She hated how she was not the one people who had died. She hated that she was still alive.

She did not feel like she deserved to live.

When she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she did not see the person she was anymore. She did not recognize herself.

The girl who embodied the person in the reflection was not Hermione anymore. She was not the Brightest Witch of her Age. She was not the girl who had kept Harry and Ron alive for eight years. She was a shell, on the edge of cracking.

People who did not know her and especially the press still used that awful name. She cursed every single one of them and when someone like Ron would make a joke of it while he was drunk, she wished she could hex him right on the spot. It infuriated her; how people believed that she was still the perfect little girl who walked into the Great Hall in First-year. It made her so angry that people still believed she was fine.

Something that had infuriated her was how McGonagall had just expected Hermione to be 'perfect' for Head Girl. How the Golden Girl would be back on her feet and over with the sadness to hop back into her old shoes and take her position.

What was she to answer? In her heart, she knew that she did not want that position of power this year. However, in her mind, she still had the annoying little voice telling her to stop disappointing everyone around her.

It was stupid honestly, how she was making such a big deal about it. Technically, she would not have many things to worry about. The Prefects did most of the work, all she had to do was hold meetings, and help the school organize things at times. This demand was wrecking her entire plan of showing people she had changed and how she did not fit the name 'Golden Girl' anymore.

Even after a restless night, over hours of thinking and overthinking she could not come up with an answer. She had two mindsets. Telling the Headmistress to  _ fuck  _ herself and to leave the witch alone. Or acting like the old Hermione and trying to please everyone by accepting.

She was caught in her own dilemma. 

The girl knew that even as much as she wanted to bash the idea and scowl anyone who says otherwise, deep down she knew she would have that part of her indented in her soul as if it was tainted forever. She knew that in the end, she would accept even if every single part of her wished otherwise.

She grabbed her wand from the nightstand and muttered a quick time spell. It was half-past six, she was laying in the double bed in the room she had acquainted ever since moving in with Harry. It was one of the guest rooms of the house; she had slept in it once during one of their quick visits to Grimmauld during the war. It was small, about the size of her room back home and she liked it. Much like the library, everything was old and rustic but beautiful in its own way. The decorative way the wood of the headboard was carved, the portraits and paintings lined on the wall were carefully picked out to match the rest of the room.

Everything was so familiar yet so distant.

She jumped out of bed and pulled some socks on her feet. That was one thing she hated about this place, the floor was always freezing as if a permanent cooling charm was placed on it.

The adjoining bathroom was much like the room. It held the same colours and style. A walk-in glass shower on the left, a grand tub in the middle, a mirror, and a sink. The floor was donned with black tiles and the walls were painted in dark charcoal. It was somewhat ironic how the house fit the family who once lived here.

She examined herself in the mirror, her eyes had dark purple rings under them, her hair was messy and her curls were uneven, her skin was pale— almost white. She had lost her old tan, over the past few months she had not gone outdoors much during the day, she tended to avoid the press by doing so. She looked over every part. When she came across her arm, she watched with close eyes the ripple of ink from her shoulder to the ends of her fingertips.

Her sleeve.

The mark she had gotten as a lovely parting gift from Bellatrix Lestrange was too much a burden for Hermione to see it popping out every time she moved her arm.

She found a solution. She covered her left arm with tattoos— they were meaningless in the most important way. She had a mix of objects and words intertwined with vines. Small daisies inked into her hand. Her scar had almost disappeared. It could not be seen by the blind eye now with all the tattoos covering it from every side. Hermione had enjoyed it, getting them. The painful process of needles piercing skin took away the burning from the slur.

She liked the look of her arm being covered, she looked different.

She liked the look of her arm being painted with art, covered by it.

Examining herself in the large mirror in front of her, she splashed water on her face and let the drops slide down her face into the drain. She then quickly brushed her teeth and walked out of the bathroom to fetch her wand.

The witch had no clue whether Harry was up or not. As she walked out of her room, she quietly opened her door to diminish the slight creek. She made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. Even after four months, she never really got used to the fact that she lived there now. All the Order meetings had been held at the table. Everyone was there.

Now, many of those people were gone.

She noticed a tall frame leaning back onto the counter, a book in hand and a mug in the other. Harry stood, reading.

_ What an odd sight. _

He was also shirtless, something he did not do often. She could see the golden snitch tattooed on his right side. She remembered that one, she had finally convinced him to get one, and they had gone to the parlour together.

When he noticed her standing in the doorway, he acknowledged her mid-sip and shut his book, placing it on the counter.

"Morning," Harry spoke, wiping his mouth.

"Good morning," she answered and picked up the book he had been reading. Guide to Advanced Occlumency.

"It's for Ginny," he noticed her questioning. "She wanted to learn how to shut certain memories out— she's been having a little trouble with that lately."

Hermione noticed the sadness that washed over him. She knew how much he hated seeing people he cared about hurting because of the war.  _ Especially  _ Ginny.

"She mentioned it to me a few weeks back," she took a seat at the table. She gestured towards the steaming pot of coffee and she muttered a small 'Thanks'. He always made a pot for her since he knew how she liked coffee much more than tea.

"How'd you sleep?" Harry sipped his tea. 

"Good." She lied. "You?"

"Well enough," a slight chuckle escaped him and she smiled.

"Ron and Gin wanted all of us to go out tonight since you're both leaving tomorrow and all," she poured the liquid into a mug and stopped. Of course, they wanted to. "I mean— unless you have plans."

She did want to see Theo but she supposed seeing her friends all together once would be fine.

"No— that sounds good. What time did they say?"

"I think around seven. I'll owl Ron later to make sure," she nodded. Harry went back to his book and sipped from the mug.

It was a little odd, how normal it was to live with Harry. It was easy. They did not have to be speaking all the time. It was never awkward and the silences were comfortable.

While she drank from her mug, she noticed the Daily Prophet sitting on the table next to Harry. Hermione leaned over and fetched it. On the front page, a large animated photo of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

**"MINISTER OF MAGIC – HOGWARTS REOPEN"** By Rita Skeeter

_ On Friday afternoon at approximately 5:30 pm, Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke on students returning to Hogwarts and new advances with the Headmistress. _

_ New appointed Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Minerva McGonagall said to be in the order of "new rules and changes" happening during the school year. _

_ The Minister believes Hogwarts will be better than ever and in order with a new regime of classes. _

_ Students returning or commencing school are to arrive in two days. _

She stopped reading. Skeeter's writing was all bullshit anyway. She knew there would be changes at Hogwarts, anyone could have guessed it. After what had happened, they were bound to add a few more school and security rules at some point.

"I supposed I'll see tomorrow right," Hermione mumbled as she chucked the paper on the table with a sigh and leaned back into her chair.

"When are you leaving for the... whatever— the training in France?" she asked. 

"First week of October," he dropped his book back onto the table. "And then, we have a week off so— we'll be staying in Hogsmeade to see you guys." 

Harry watched the witch; she seemed a little off today. She was most days but today seemed worse than most. He noticed how tired she looked from the prominent circles under her eyes. "What's wrong Hermione?" 

_ Shite. _

Of course, Harry would notice.  _ Fucking idiot  _ — should have cast a spell or downed a potion.

She looked back to the wizard. Both his arms were crossed and placed on the table, his muscles strained. He watched her with another concerned expression.

She could not lie to him, he would see right through her. Moreover, she was not exactly a very good actress.

"McGonagall sent me a letter, yesterday," she exhaled the breath she had been holding. "She wants me to be Head Girl but—"

"You don't want to be in a position of power," Yes she had spoken about that subject multiple times with him and Ginny. She did not want to rule the school. She had saved the world a few months back that was enough.

"Exactly, but I— I don't know what to do, and she seemed so desperate in the note— As much as I really don't want to, I think I have to—" Harry seemed indifferent, he was showing no prominent emotions.

"She already has so much on her plate this year— I don't think I want to let her down— I can't."

He was silent for a long time, just sat there, and seemed to be processing things,

"Can I speak without you getting angry or— hitting me?"

"Granted," she rolled her eyes.

"Look I know you haven't felt the same recently— and I know that you wanted to get rid of everyone's expectations this year but in all honesty, I think it might be good for you," as he spoke, Harry's voice lowered several octaves. He wore a soft expression and his emerald eyes were hoping. "You just don't do much, maybe having this position will keep you occupied, and the school year will be better. 

"And honestly— if you don't want to rule the school, then don't. Lay low; the Prefects do most of the work you just have to guide them."

He was right, although it made her furious. He was right.

"I think you're— right?" she spoke after a long silence 

His eyes blew wide open. "I'm sorry, what?” 

She rolled her eyes and a slight slime appeared on his features. "I said. I think you are  _ right _ ."

"I supposed it wouldn't be the end of the world to host monthly meetings," her tone condescending. 

"Also, I'm sure if you asked McGonagall for a break every now and then, she'd give it to you." 

She nodded; she took the time to carefully think about it. Just when she was about to make her decision, "I have to head to the Ministry this morning. Dawlish needs some file reports from an old case— he asked me to pick them up. I'll be back in a few hours and I'll owl you about tonight." He got up and placed his cup in the sink. "Ginny's coming over at 10," he finished, pointing an accusatory finger. "I will see you later," he spoke as he walked out the door. She just nodded and gave him a thumb up, drinking her coffee. 

She placed her mug onto the table and grabbed the Occlumency book again. She should try to— 

"Don't forget!" Harry called from the stairs in a playful tone, she scoffed. 

After a few minutes, she heard the Floo and with that, he was gone. She sat, pensive in the kitchen for a few minutes. She thought about it some more. 

She headed out to send McGonagall her answer.


	3. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Self-harm

He woke with a start.

Another nightmare— although this one had been different. The images that had flashed through his subconscious were a mere run of memories, rather than a series of envisioned images.

He had been watching his aunt. She had been torturing _her_. He was frozen in place as the scene unfolded in front of him. He could not seem to move, to lift even just one finger. To move one muscle. He was planted there and forced to watch her wither on the floor, screaming— begging with continuous pleas. As much as he wanted to help, aid or do something. He simply could not. Even when her beseeching eyes caught his cold closed-off gaze, he did not do anything. He stood there— like a _coward_.

He dreamt of situations like it every night. It did change. Sometimes he would be the one torturing her. Sometimes she was to one torturing him. Sometimes he was in her position and she was the one who stood and watched. Sometimes Bellatrix would mutter the simple curse, a green light would flash out and hit her, and then it was over. Nevertheless, today— his mind had decided to trick him with his own horrifying memories.

He never grasped the concept of the memory. Why is it he dreamt of it? Why about her? Why did it never change? Why the _fuck_ was it always _her_?

He shifted the warm duvet off his body. A strip of cold sweat spread all over his figure. His heart pounded harshly against his ribcage and his blood pumped quickly through his veins. His body was shaking, not obvious to the blind eye but easily spotted by someone with night terrors.

He made a dash for the washroom and turned the shower on to the coldest temperature possible. He even added a cooling charm to the chamber.

Last night he had a hot shower. It was not comforting either. The water was so warm it burned. It smouldered his skin. He felt— _raw_. It pained him to let the water trickle down his body, causing fires to flame inside him.

It amused him, to hurt. He deserved it. He deserved to burn. To scorch his body with the continuous stream.

This morning. He was in dire need of a cold shower. To rid his thoughts and make him feel numb.

He needed to clear his mind from the nightmares. From the _fucking_ memories.

He rid himself of his minimal articles of clothing and hopped into the fall of the water. He let out a gasp as the water touched his skin. If possible, the freezing water hurt more than the hot. It felt like glass piercing through him. Like falling icicles, puncturing holes all over his body.

Shivering, he let the water run down his body and into the drain. His brain cleared from the abnormally freezing water and thanks to many Occlumency lessons with Snape and Bellatrix. His skin was red and covered in goosebumps. He let the pain from the drizzle mask his burning forearm and the burning in his brain.

The walls in his mind were strong. Even stronger than they had been during the war.

Spending four months in Azkaban sometimes could reward you. He had advanced his mind and made new shelves to hide his past. Separated each memory, each person affiliated, each emotion, each moment. His mind had always been advanced but now— his mind was in an impenetrable labyrinth.

He rubbed the mark. Fast and hard.

Applying as much pressure as possible.

Digging his fingernails in the skin to cause little pinches every now and then.

Maybe if he rubbed it enough, the ink would bleed out like blood.

Maybe it would be gone.

He was wrong. No amount of friction, rubbing, scratching would make it fucking go away. He was so tired. Tired of the pain. Tired of trying. Tired of living— of merely existing.

He wanted to disappear. To just vanish. To vanish from this world— _forever_.

Instead, he turned off the water and grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, he was not surprised. His hair was long— probably longer than it had ever been. It laid out on his forehead, the wet tips surpassing his eyelashes. His eyes were dead. He could not see any emotions surpassing them. He had deep bruises under his eyes. A few fresh cuts and marks, healing scars around his face. His skin, pale white and almost translucent. He looked like a ghost. The ghost of himself.

The war had changed him. He had recognized his differences during his stay in Azkaban. He had had enough time to think and overthink.

His physical aspect was not the only thing that had changed.

He dragged the curtain open in his bedroom. The sunlight passed through. Warm rays warmed his skin through the glass. He had not seen the sun in four months. He had never thought he could miss something like the sun. Something so simple and pure— it was odd to think about it.

He noticed the gardens, blooming and full of life. During the war, his mother’s garden had been left to die. The flowers had dried out, the fountains had stopped working, and the hedges had been overgrown. Narcissa had been too busy worrying about her son and Lucius to keep up with her beloved garden. It had not helped that the Death Eaters took pleasure in practicing duels in the yard and Greyback indulging his meals next to the roses.

When Draco observed the garden, he saw colours, water, life, and brightness. She had gotten up to fixing and bringing up every single plant possible. It was— beautiful. Even more so than he remembered many years before when his eleven-year-old self would ride his broomstick over the Manor.

He quickly made his way towards his dresser, as he opened the draws they were filled with new clothes. None of his old pieces took place anymore. He grabbed a fresh pair of trousers, boxers and a black jumper. He dressed, pulled on a new pair of dragon hide shoes, and walked out.

His mother and he had not spent much time together last night. Draco had been exhausted and in need of cleaning. He had proceeded to fall asleep without another thought. He had not even bothered eating, this morning he was famished. Azkaban had not a very thorough meal plan, they mostly consisted of dried out bread, overcooked vegetables and soup.

He walked through the Manor, he noticed the changed colours— brighter colours. The walls had been repainted. Many of the portraits had been removed, curtains and drapes had disappeared, letting much more light flood into the rooms. Flowers, probably from the garden, were placed in crystal vases and set in every nook and cranny. Many old pieces of furniture had been changed— they had been old, Draco reflected. He had a brief memory of his father getting angry with him for eating sweets he had bought in Diagon Alley on his seventeenth-century sofa.

He passed the West drawing room and noticed the doors had been shut. He had a brief flash of the nightmares that took place in his mind last night and turned around.

He came to a halt, standing in front of the two grand wood doors. They were closed as well, which was odd. So many disturbing events, conversations had taken place in that room. Draco felt sick to his stomach thinking about it. The killings, the snake, the crazy people who had sat in that room on multiple occasions. Sometimes he wondered how he survived, how he bared it— back then.

His hand slowly made its way to the handle. It was as if his movements worked in slow motion. As if his body was giving signs, signals to do otherwise. 

_Crack!_

The familiar sound of apparition burst next to him. He gave a little jump and his hand flew away from the knob. Bippy— one of the Manor’s houses elves stood nervously. She was wearing a light pink dress and fiddled with her hands nervously.

“Master Draco, sir. Bibby has come to fetch you, sir. Mistress is requesting you meet her in the library,” The little elf said. Draco gave a curt nod and she disappears with another loud crack. 

He turns from the haunting doors and walks back towards the library. As a kid, it had been his favourite room— not that anyone knew. He loved books and reading. He liked reading while watching birds flying, from the window. It was peaceful. 

The Malfoy library was grand. Many rows or stacks filled the room. Windows donned both sides, staircases brought up to the second level. Novels, upon manuals, upon textbooks— stacked on top of each other. His favourite spot was the window seat; it was placed in one of the last rows. The window was small but it had a very nice view of the gardens. He used to hide out there when he was younger. Trying to avoid his father.

When he entered the room, his mother was sitting at a small round table next to a window. She was stirring a spoon in her teacup. Her head turned to meet his gaze. She smiled.

“Good morning, how did you sleep?” she asked. He walked forwards; from a distance, he could examine the contents on the table. A fresh pot of tea sat steaming, a platter of a full English breakfast sat on the left side, a plate of crumpets, scones and toast on the right. His mother had thought this through.

“Amazing,” he lied, taking a seat opposite of her. She had a book set on the table next to the teacup.

“I had the elves make you a big breakfast,” setting her cup back down. “Supposed you’d be hungry.”

He was. Extremely, so much he could eat a horse.

He nodded and started plating the food in front of him. His mother watched under her lashes with expectancy. He could bet she had about a million words on the tip of her tongue about _manners_ and how his methods were _not adequate_ , oh— and how this was not _suitable etiquette_. Apparently, she held them back and watched as he ate much too quickly and without care for any kind of manners.

He felt a little sick stuffing his face. He had been so used to the lack of food in his cell, now he had a smaller portion resistance. Right now— he could not care less.

Narcissa was back to reading her book, occasionally sipping her teacup, and bringing it back down onto the saucer.

She talked and rambled on about a few new assets in her life, changes of the manor— Draco nodded and made small hums of agreement while he ate.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she opened the book to the first page, a plain white envelope his name written in an elegant dragging scrawl. One he could recognize anywhere. She handed him the letter, he did not take it.

“It’s from your father, Draco.”

“I don’t want it,” he kept his eyes trained down to his plate. Suddenly, he was no longer hungry at the mention of the man.

“Don’t be difficult, you have not seen him in months… the least you could do is read his letter,” she kept pushing the letter. Forcing him to grab it.

“I said, I _don’t_ want it,” he met her eyes. “I have no time to deal with his _fucking_ business.”

“Language.”

He rolled his eyes, grabbed a piece of toast from the plate, and bitterly munched on it.

“Draco…” she started. “I know you are angry with him for—”

“No, no, no…” he chuckled darkly. “I am not just _angry_ with him. I am _livid_ with him and his ideals. Look where that brought us. His fucking choices caused this to happen— to our family, to our world. You want to go and defend him, mother— go ahead, I will not stop you… but don’t think for a _second_ that I will ever— _ever_ , respect that man again.” 

He took a second to breathe deeply, “and I will certainly not answer his letters, nor will I read them.”

She looked taken aback for a few seconds, of his outburst. “I am not defending him, Draco. I do not forgive him for the troubles he caused us but that does not mean that I will ignore him. He is still your father— at least read the letter…”

He snatched it out of her hand, walked over to the fireplace and threw it into the flames. It caught in the flames and crumpled up. Turned black, until it dissolved to ash.

“Happy?” he stated with a mocking tone. She huffed and stood, taking her book with her.

“If you weren’t so dramatic, you’d see how childish that was,” she stood before the library doors. “Be mature about this, I will never force you to do anything, again or to forgive him— but if you want to be the bigger person burning his letters won’t get you to that step.”

He sighed, avoiding her eyes.

“The dining hall is closed— _permanently_. Dinner tonight will be in the _East_ drawing-room.”

She left without another word, the doors closing behind her.

At least she had seemed to never want to step foot into one of those rooms again. _Progress_ , he thought.

Draco looked back to the fireplace, in the direction of the letter. It was now a pile of ash. He took his seat again. He was in no mood to eat anymore. His hands folded in front of him, elbows on the table he sighed.

A small grey card was placed under his plate. He pulled out and it flashed the words—

‘Draco’

‘Mind Healer’

‘Appointment’

‘Two-Thirty’

On top of everything else, he had to spill his mind out to a complete stranger. 

_Fucking Fuck._

* * *

The loud chatter surrounded her. She nursed a half-empty glass of Firewhiskey in her hands. Her friends talked of training, Quidditch, their lives. Every word that rolled off each of their tongues passed from one ear to the other. She was caught up in her own mind. Worrying about the next day— and every other to pass after that.

She had no interest in sitting at The Leaky Cauldron at that instant. She had no care for any time of social arrangement like the one she was having right now. She had cravings that were waiting— _begging_ to be answered. Complied.

The time that was spent here, wasted the time to be spent with Theo. Wasted the time to answer her body’s calls.

She looked around the pub, it was packed. Every table in her line of sight was full of laughing, drinking, and talking parties. She was in a room full of people, yet she felt so alone. As if none of these people existed in her own reality. They did not share the same problems as her— it made it seem like she was the only person sitting in the pub.

Her friends still talked, had not even noticed her distance from the conversation. From the group in general. They were so normal— or it seemed like it. They knew how to hide it, Ginny, Ron, Harry. They did not seem to be still affected by the horrors they had gone through. It seemed like she was the only one still caught up with her problems. 

It made her feel dejected. She had always been the _one_ — The Girl that accomplished everything. She had never failed. She had kept her friends safe for years. She had fought a dark wizard since the age of eleven. She always had out on top on in the end, yet in the simple manner of her mind. She could not accomplish the simple task of the seven stages of grief.

“’Mione?” the soft voice of Ron snapped her out of her trance. His eyes were soft, much more welcoming than they had been in many months. “We’re leaving now, Harry already got the check.”

He pointed to Ginny and Harry already walking to the entrance. 

“Er… yeah— sorry,” she lifted herself from the wooden chair. Ron was waiting. 

_For who? For her?_

They walked out of the pub, passing many onlookers. Once they got outside, the cool nightly breeze sent her curls flying backwards. They stood at the entrance, being left by the other couple. Not speaking they walked side by side, following the redhead and her boyfriend. 

Ron broke the silence.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he came to halt, she followed. “I— I’ve been an arse these past few months. I should not have shut you out like that. I mean, we did decide to end it… together.”

He lifted his gaze from the pavement to her face. Watching her with hopeful eyes.

“I guess I just didn’t know how to tal— to go back to how we were before.”

“Ron. You know I will always love you and I will always be your friends, despite whatever happens. And thank you for apologizing— you have been an arse.”

He nodded. “Can we— Can we hug… it's been a while…”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed him pulling him into her arms. His hands wrapped around her waist and she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

“I love you too, you know.”

“I know.”

When their bodies pulled apart, they continued their path. Ron spoke of his training and his Auror duties when Hermione asked. He said mostly the same things Harry had elaborated on multiple occasions but she did not say anything. Happy that there was no more bad blood between them, she let him ramble on about stories and interesting cases. She smiled the smallest smile to herself. There was one of those moments where her heart did not feel so cold.

When they arrived in the few blocks leading to Grimmauld Place, Ron took his leave hugging her one last time while wishing her a good year at Hogwarts and then he disapparated. She walked the few next streets alone, the moonlight pushing its light onto the pavement. 

She spotted a figure leaning against the railing leading to the house. His dark curly hair stood out in the light and he fiddled with a lighter in his hands. 

“You know it looks awfully suspicious, even for you to play with fire at night.”

Theo jumped at the sound of her voice. He turned facing her, a guilty grin spreading onto his face. 

“You know what Granger, I like being the suspicious type. Keeps people on their toes,” he replied, tucking the lighter into his jean pocket and walking towards her. 

“How are you on this fine evening?” he gestured to the full moon shining brightly. 

“In need of something amusing,” she smiled smugly at him.

“Lucky for you I am just what you are craving.”

Hermione rolled her eyes; Theo draped an arm around her shoulders. 

“So what are our plans for tonight?” she asked.

“Well, I was thinking we celebrate— our last night of freedom…”

“Sounds good to me,” she agreed. “Just no wizarding places. I’ve already had to handle that tonight.”

“You went out with the Wonder Twins and his girlfriend, I suppose,” said Theo in a playful tone. She whacked him on the arm.

“Don’t call them that and her name is Ginny.”

“Sorry, there are so many Weasel’s I can’t seem to quite remember each and every one of their names.”

She shook her head at his sarcastic comment. He was not wrong; there were a _lot_ of Weasley’s.

They walked around the streets nearing Grimmauld for a while. They talked about their plans to meet up at Hogwarts to continue their weekly rituals. She told him about the Head Girl post, he laughed. They smoked for a little while. They sat in the park for about an hour— laughing at old memories, they did not know they shared. 

As they walked back, Hermione spoke, “Question?”

“Mmhmm.”

“How am I to reach you when I need my stock?”

Theo and Hermione had an understanding, ever since the first week they spent time together. Theo found deals on things like cigarettes and weed. He then purchased them and monitored their ‘intakes’. Theo had told her about his rough patch with drugs when he had gotten the mark and he did not want Hermione to fall into that same trap. So— they made a deal, Theo is in charge of handling her needs and makes sure she doesn’t end up where he did. 

The only slight issue was the potions. Theo was never enlightened on that subject, Hermione kept that part of her life closed from everyone. She brewed the potions at night and kept them hidden. She knew how angry or disappointed Theo would be if he found out but she could not bring herself to tell him. 

Hermione did not believe it was that bad. She had not gotten to a point where she could not function anymore; she decided it was best to be her secret. 

“Well, I’m sure we can figure out something that if you need to see me in the Slytherin dorms— you could get in.”

“Really? They’d let me—“

“Well… no maybe they wouldn’t give the password but you are Head Girl, you have access to that kind of information— plus, it never hurts to pull out your Golden Girl card,” he knew she hated it and that’s why he said it so mockingly.

She was furious, in a good way.

“Oh _no_ — I got the Granger angry pose. Have I done something to offend you?”

She rolled her eyes at him and turned back to keep up her pace. “You Theodore Nott are a menace.”

“I’m just kidding,” he waved it off. “But honestly, if you ever need anything just come see me— the boys won’t bother you I’ll make sure of that.”

She nodded as they arrived back at 12 Grimmauld Place. They had spent hours together and she had never felt so contempt.

“I suppose I will see you tomorrow,” he spoke. 

“I suppose you will.”

“Well— goodnight my _fair lady_ ,” he grabbed her hand and planted a small kiss on her knuckles.

She scolded the gesture, he smirked.

He walked back to the apparition point and disappeared.

“Pure-blood prick,” she muttered, walking into the house.


	4. Spaces

“Probably off with her new husband—” Zabini said as he plopped down with a sigh. “Hiding from the world somewhere in France. Last time I saw her was before the war and when I got back to the manor it had been deserted for a while.”

“It’s better than coming back to your entire family. Merlin, I think my mother has gotten worse.”

“Pansy, your mother has _always_ been insane,” Theo spoke as he brushed a hand through his hair. Pansy cooked her head in approval.

Draco was silent. Analyzing their conversation in his head.

He sat on the train. 

The whistle blew every few minutes, startling him each time. The loud noise of wheels treading on metal tracks, causing the train to shake ever so slightly. The scenery moving along with the train— painted pictures of nature passing by. The sun setting slowly, the sky becoming dimmer each minute. The sun sliding down the horizon. The moon’s crescent rising to sit between the seas of stars.

The four Slytherins sat in the train compartment. Draco on the left, next to the window. He paid more attention to the outside world than what was happening next to him. Theo sat next to him— his long legs sprawled out and placed in front of Blaise’s seat.

Blaise opposite of him, his feet propped up on Pansy’s lap. The witch scowled and kept pushing his feet off fixing her black skirt— brushing off the dust. Blaise kept pulling them back up, smirking to himself.

“Have you spoken to your father, Theo?” Pansy’s voice slipping him out of his trance. Draco’s head turned to the brunette whose head was rolled back onto the rest.

“Nope. The last time he saw me we didn’t have a very friendly reunion,” he sniffed. “I said something like ‘Hello Father’ and he responded with something like ‘I’ll kill you.’ Then, he started trying to hex me— I doubt I will be making visits to his cell anytime soon.”

“How charming,” Draco drawled. 

“Ah back from the dead, Malfoy?” Zabini clapped his hands together with a cheeky grin.

“Piss off.”

“How is _daddy dearest_?” he retorted as Pansy hit his arm with the back of her hand, a small _‘Ow’_ escaping him.

“Rotting in his _fucking_ cell and _hopefully_ regretting his life choices,” he snapped. Any topic concerning his father was one that made his skin crawl. 

A pregnant pause washed over the four individuals.

“Have you talked to him?” the voice of Theodore Nott drawled him back into the conversation.

Draco dropped his hand from its rest on his chin. “No. He did try,” sneering he thought back about his conversation with his mother and burning the letter.

“Well we’ve already established our families are fucked up… what’s new,” spoke Pansy with a mocking scoff. “ _Blaise_. Put your fucking feet down or I’ll hex you.”

As quickly as he could his feet fell with a thump to the ground. Pansy was never one for throwing meaningless threats.

A long silence passed over them. Everything was different; they did not want to be here— apart from maybe Nott who had the choice. They were not back in Fifth-Year joking around and living like children anymore. They were enemies, the scum of the Wizarding society, hopeless nobodies. To most, they did not even deserve to be breathing the air in their lungs. Definitely not walking freely around Hogwarts.

They could not talk and joke around as they used to. It had all changed— they had changed.

The loud sounds had become soft whispers through his ears. As the day reached twilight, the music lifted him away. 

To another place, somewhere where he did not need to fight constant battles with himself.

Somewhere, where he could not feel the guilt.

There was no pain, no regrets— just him.

Throughout life, there were moments like these. Where time seemed to stop for a few seconds. When it was not happiness or sadness, or anger surrounding minds. It was passiveness and peace— it was just calm. Time that was spent during lives, cessed and took a moment. It felt like a blank slate. Empty but full. The pieces of minds could feel nothing… stop worrying. Live as if people were meant to live. Without details, duties, problems. Just survive in the nirvana.

Life could just become _theirs_ for short moments.

Draco often was transported to this place of mind. Occlumency helped and he could just forget about his past, about the present and the future. 

His only troubles were the ones of inhaling and exhaling.

Sleep often accompanied this psyche. The tranquillity he felt was like none other. He could fall into a deep slumber for a few hours before the nightmares came tickling him again.

Even on the train, heading to fucking _hell_. He could find that smallest bit of peace in himself and consume it until its end.

~

The loud chattering in the hall sounded muffled by his ears.

He was sitting at the end of the table, near the grand doors― far away from the younger students and close to the only people, he had ever trusted.

Students were laughing. _Fucking laughing_.

They were happy, smiling and— over it... They had already gotten over it. They had already grieved and endured the past.

It seemed like the last few years had never happened. As if there had been no war, no dark wizards, no Death Eaters, no battles, no death. No hate between societies. As if time had stopped for a while and un-paused to go on as it had before. Like they had just re-entered their childhoods. Like he was back at Hogwarts as a Fourth-year, nagging over Potter and his friends.

Draco was not over it. He did not think he could ever be.

How can you get over something if you could never forgive yourself for it?

He wore a frown watching the people around him. 

_Fuck_ , he’d do anything to just leave, never come back and—

Hell froze over.

Theodore Nott walked into the Great Hall with Hermione fucking Granger.

All chatter seemed to stop, in favour of watching the odd pair. They were talking, like normal humans. All eyes seemed to be watching them, hundreds of pairs. 

“Bloody hell…” Zabini whispered, jaw slack.

Draco watched as Theo gave the witch a sly smirk and turned towards the Slytherin table. Walking a small smile on his face, one only someone who had known him long enough could notice.

He watched the curly-haired witch walk away and sit down at the Gryffindor table. His eyes drifted back to Nott.

Theo sat down and looked at his bewildered friends with concern. “What?”

“Care to explain why you walked in here with the _Golden Girl_?” Pansy questioned, she lifted an eyebrow. Her hands folded over her chin. 

“Er— she’s my friend.” 

“Mate, did you smoke anything?” Blaise’s finger motioning to his head, his brows furrowed.

Theo looked offended for a second. Then he shook his head and chuckled under his breath.

“No, no. She is my friend. We’re— friends.”

“You’re kidding. With the Mud—”

“Shut the fuck up, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes at the comment. In a condescending tone, he replied, “seriously Nott, _her_.”

Blaise’s mouth was still slightly open. He was surprised, to say the least, but Theo was always one to be the friendly type. Pansy on the other hand was curious. 

“Says the guy who—” but he stopped himself before spilling private conversation to the entirety of the Great Hall.

“Keep your damn mouth _shut_ ,” Draco turned bright red. A flush spread from his neck to the high of his cheekbones.

The two other Slytherins sat and watched the scene unfold. Soundless and wide-eyed.

Both males were now oddly silent. Glaring flames into each other. Draco’s hand clenched and unclenched into a fist. He was fuming, his jaw tight, and his teeth gritted painfully together. 

Their silent duel was soon cut off by the Headmistress’s arrival. Professor McGonagall had taken Dumbledore’s old post in the last few months. She had been appointed by the Minister of Magic and the Ministry. Draco had always believed if Dumbledore had retired, she would have probably taken his place. His younger self would have hoped for Severus but that option did no longer stand. She stated the usual speech— just as if he remembered all those years ago. Rules and welcomes to new and older students. The sorting ceremony began and spaced out by hearing the constant roar of the hat…

‘GRYFFINDOR’ 

‘RAVENCLAW’

‘HUFFLEPUFF’

Only a few murmurs of ‘SLYTHERIN.’

Sometime during the Headmistress’s presentation, his eyes flitted to the Gryffindor table. His gaze was met with a familiar curly head. He observed— her frizzy mane framed her head and made it look so much smaller. The coffee coloured curls framed her face, he used to remember thinking how it looked awful, but now he had a pulling need to run his hands through the soft-looking waves. To pull one out gently and watch it bounce back from his fingertips. He watched her face; her eyes looked towards someone next to her. They had something deeper to them— like some kind of sadness. Her amber eyes— even from a distance he could recognize a certain glint to them. Her sun-stained skin was paler now but it still looked like crystallized honey. She still had those freckles. Those _fucking freckles_ — powdered onto her cheeks, nose, and forehead. They were everywhere. They looked like stars, spread through the night sky. Once you had a glimpse of them, you could never look away. The soft dots were sprinkled perfectly onto her skin, they melted together. Her cheeks wore a slight pink blush. It played out onto her cheekbones and her little button nose.

He kept watching the witch; he could see all the details, all the little differences. 

He wanted to look away. So badly. It was wrong for him to notice everything about her. So fucking _wrong_. Yet, he could not seem to tear his gaze away. 

The feast began and the moments passed and blurred into one. He eventually got off the continuous stare but his eyes kept following back up their old path during the meal. Draco tried to fight it but he did not have the strength to do so.

Pansy and Theo were talking about Granger. The last thing he heard was the silky voice of Pansy. “She got hot, Theo. I’d be all over her in a second if I was you.”

“Well she does like gi—“

Draco’s meal was interrupted by a clearing of a throat. He turned around to the sound and found a student peering down at him. She was no older than a Fourth-Year and she wore a horrified expression. She wrung her hands nervously in the front of her robes. 

“Malfoy?” he nodded. “The Headmistress requested you to her office.”

“Now?” he questioned, looking down to his half-finished plate.

“Yes,” she took one last glance at the space and people around him, she quickly stepped away, and she disappeared in the sea of students. 

“Fuck,” he muttered with a sigh. He twisted his legs over the bench and stood.

“Have fun,” Pansy singsongs, sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah—”

Gods, he hoped this was not another bloody therapy session. 

* * *

McGonagall had sent for her. Probably to discuss her Head Girl duties.

She was on edge this evening. She already had doubts about coming back here in the first place— but the reality was so much worse. She had not expected to remember everything and for the memories to run in constant circles in her mind. She had expected to feel odd but not near as much as she did. Just sitting in the Great Hall made her feel unwelcome and disturbed.

She wished more than anything she had a hidden potion, stashed in the pockets of her robes.

She saw Tonks and Remus hidden by a bloody white sheet. She saw bodies upon bodies piled up in the corner. She saw blood and crushed stones. She heard screams and shouts of pain.

She was angry and fucking exhausted— _distraught_.

A bomb ready to explode.

Everything made her angry… the laughing, the smiles, and the chatter. She dug her fork in the underside of the wood and she could feel it pierce through with the sheer force of her anger.

To top it all off. Her clothes were too small. Her skirt was at least two inches shorter than it should have been. Her shirt was tighter on her chest— the sleeves were too short and did not cover her inked wrist. Her robes were the only article of clothing that fit properly and that gave her enough camouflage to hide her secrets.

Now everyone had seen her with Theo and she listened to the quiet whispers and gossips.

_‘Do you think they’re together?’_

_‘He’s definitely using her…’_

_‘What a whore fucking a Death Eater…’_

She tried to ignore them but it was bringing her closer to the knife’s edge. She was not guilty or regretful of walking into the Great Hall with him. Hermione was irritated about her pupil’s assumptions. How everyone just assumed every part of her life.

She stopped her way through the castle towards McGonagall’s office. She was in no mood to deal with this but it would not be long…

_Right?_

When she got to the entrance up to the office, the stairs had already appeared. The gargoyle was twisted and held an open path. She took the first steps up, the last time she remembered going back up there was a few hours after they had won the war. After Harry had killed Voldemort.

After the light had defeated the dark.

She felt so happy those few hours after they had won. Holding hands with Ron, embracing her best friends. If she could see where it led too after the tears of joy were exploited.

Her Mary Janes made dainty echoes through the tower. She arrived at the top and the door was open as well. Most of the time, Dumbledore kept it closed or semi-closed.

Hermione stretched her neck and saw a familiar woman standing behind the desk. Her gray hair, slicked back into a bun, her glasses placed on the bridge of her nose, a small grin appeared on her lips.

The office still looked the same. Many portraits still hung on the walls, two had been added; Dumbledore and Snape. Bookshelves still lined the surfaces. The desk had been kept. Even the sorting hat was still placed on the shelf.

As she took a few more steps, another body was sitting in the chair to the right. She had missed the person when she had peeked into the room.

When she saw the back of _his_ head, his platinum blonde hair— all her anger boiled back up to the surface.

“ _What the hell_ , is he doing here,” Hermione seethed. He turned to face her and his face scrunched up in disgust, she returned the favour.

“Miss Granger. Sit,” she pointed her hand to the seat next to the boy.

“No. What is that bastard doing here?”

“Sit down, Hermione. I will explain everything in a moment.”

She huffed and admittedly sat down but not before throwing a glare in the blonde’s direction.

The Headmistress sighed and pushed up her glasses. “Now, you will not interrupt and you will keep silent until I finish my explanation.”

They both rolled their eyes.

“Miss Granger, I have called you here tonight because I wanted to speak to you about your Head Girl duties” Hermione tried to speak, she lifted a hand. “The reason Mr. Malfoy is here is that I have placed him as Head boy. The both of you will have to host weekly Prefect meetings and have rounds to complete. You will be sharing the Head Boy and Head Girl dormitory for the year and you will organize activities when needed. All your things have already been brought to your rooms and you will host meetings in the Head’s office. Is that clear?”

McGonagall lifted her head to the two baffled scholars.

Malfoy chuckled, darkly. “You have to be joking. This has to be a fucking _joke_.”

“Language and on the contrary Mr. Malfoy, I am being completely honest.”

“No— I’m— I am _not_ living with him. It’s not happening,” Hermione stated.

“Yes, you are and you will. I need as much help as I can get this year— this will set an example.”

“You can’t be serious. We’ll kill each other,” her voice raised a pitch higher. The Headmistress shrugged. “I can’t believe this is happening. No— then I do not want to be Head Girl anymore. I refuse.”

“Hermione, calm down—“

“No! I cannot believe you would do this. I cannot believe you are even letting him _walk_ through the doors. He brought them into the school. He’s the reason this _fucking shit_ started,” she pointed to Malfoy. He sat, watching and thinking— was he in a nightmare? “I— why?”

“If that is all, Miss Granger. Mr. Malfoy, I need to speak with her alone. You are free to go.”

Draco stayed still for a few seconds. His eyes were wide and full of anger. He got up and stormed out of the office. Hermione heard his echoes and footfalls running down the stairs.

“Please Headmistress—” Hermione pleaded.

“I’m sorry Hermione. I really am but this needs to happen. The Ministry asked me to keep an eye on the students who had trials this year. _Especially_ him— with your help it's just that much easier. Having him occupied with Head Boy duties might just be an advantage.”

Hermione wanted to scream. She wanted to shout and let out all the nasty things she had to say… but the Headmistress was watching her with hopeful eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to do so. She sighed a deep breath and reluctantly, “Fine— yes, whatever. I won’t be nice about this.”

“I expected nonetheless, Miss Granger.”

“Oh— Hermione. The password is ‘Confundit lucem tenebras’,” the older witch added.

 _Darkness blends with light,_ Hermione thought about it.

“Thank you.”

With that, she walked out. She was still angry— inexplicably displeased, to say the least. She walked back through the halls and made her way through the castle. The stonewalls looked rather gloomy. The whole school seemed to be in a depressive state. The only thing that was keeping it from falling apart was the students.

She couldn’t explain it— when even it felt horribly and completely wrong. The laughter and the happiness added a certain badge to the castle. It helped keep the space feel like home again.

When Hermione got to the Head’s dorm, Malfoy was leaning against the wooden door. His face was scrunched up in anger— an emotion she had seen too much on him. His eyes met hers. There was a certain emotion or feeling to his stare. She could not quite place it.

“Why didn’t you say anything,” she broke the awkward silence that settled between them. “Fight it.”

He did not speak; he did not even so much as spare her a glance as she told him the password and whispered it to open the door.

The main entrance led to the shared common room, it was decorated in plain colours— no house accents, only mixtures of brown, mahogany, white, black, cream.

A small couch along with two wingback chairs in the center. A rectangular coffee table is placed in the middle. Hardwood floors, a few carpets led to a kitchenette. Muggle appliances donned the counters.

Two doors on the opposite side of the common room— one inscribed ‘Head Girl’, and the other ‘Head Boy.’

After a few moments of observation of their new living space, he spoke. “It didn’t matter if I had said anything. She would have never changed her mind.”

She turned her head to the deep voice, he was watching her. Malfoy turned and walked away towards his room. Slamming the door shut a little louder than necessary.

Hermione breathed deeply and finally made her way towards the room she would occupy. When the door clicked shut behind her she saw her trunk and belongings placed next to her bed. Her head fell back against the wood and her eyes closed on their own accord.

This was going to be one hell of a long year.


	5. Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to Veronica because she beta'd this entire chapter and is a saint.

_Nightmares_.

When dreams become horrors. 

Quiet dreams turn into sinister nightmares in the darkness of night. Controlling our minds and taking over our bodies during the passiveness of the night. Drenched in sweat and shaking, we wake up knowing we are never safe.

Sleep is _not_ our escape.

When we are children, nightmares are a terror. Something we fear. 

Fear― it makes us panic. Our heartbeats accelerate. Agitation courses through our bodies. 

The distress we feel causes us to check under our beds, turn on the lights before entering a room, avoid dark basements at all costs. 

We pay attention to every aspect― _every_ detail. Always on the lookout for the monsters created by our minds, desperately hoping and praying to Merlin and Circe that our nightmares don’t follow us out of our slumber. Hoping that our nightmares never convert to real events.

However, some monsters and creatures of our darkest imaginations never leave. They become darker truths of real life. 

_Nightmares_ . They are childish notions. In the warm embraces of our parents, we found comfort knowing they were imaginary. Listening to their soothing words, _promising_ us that nightmares were only figments of our imagination. 

They never broached that they could manifest from reality.

As we grow. Nightmares seem to escape our minds. We fear them― _yes_ , but they do not seem as frightening as they did when we were younger. When we had not faced the world's real problems.

They become fears that are more distant and leave space for the real horrors to corrupt our minds― to take over.

Nightmares are caused by negative feelings, anxiety, or deep fears. As we grow into ourselves, the night terrors take a breather. They give us a break. 

But for some people, they never leave. 

After facing war and death, nightmares are always waiting around the corner. They never stop, and they never take breaks.

For some, the hauntings never stop.

 _Dreams_.

 _What are dreams?_ Memories, images, fantasies, pieces of our imagination?

They happen every night― at least three times. Sometimes six. Most times, we do not remember our dreams. Occasionally we remember one of them, other times we remember them all.

Dreams are often caused by certain desires or wishes. Things we really _want_ but cannot necessarily _have_.

We let our imaginations run wild within the shadows of the moonlight and allow our subconscious to bring forth our deepest desires. To places we _wish_ to be. With people, we _want_ to see. With things, we _wish_ we had.

Dreams are a human experience, everyone has them. They are unique to each individual holding different meanings from one being to the next. 

Dreams do not have recurrences. They should not come back often. Nevertheless, sometimes we can not escape them, not even in our reality.

 _Deja-Vu._

Seeing the same thing twice. Experiencing the same memories on multiple occasions. Like a Pensieve.

Dreams rarely come back. If they do, never the same. There are always small differences, minimal details invisible to naked eye But what about _memories_?

Minimal details… 

We have the power to control them. Remove them from our minds and envisage it again.

Sometimes, we revisit our darkest thoughts while we sleep. Memories gaining the opportunity to slip in and make their appearance. Memories become dreams. Dreams become nightmares.

_When do dreams become nightmares?_

When do our minds decide to take our desires and turn them into torture devices? 

Take our solace of peace and push us into pools of inner darkness. 

How does it _begin―_ when does it _stop_?

She guessed when reality came crashing down through the rays of sunlight peeking through the maroon curtains.

* * *

He groaned.

He had had a terrible night. Worse than the nights against the cold stone wall of his cell in Azkaban. 

Despite laying in the silk sheets of a comfortable bed, he had not slept at all. His mind was running circles all night as he twisted and turned, shifted the pillows, pulled off comforters and blankets. There was no way he was falling asleep after a day like the last.

 _Fuck_. It had not been some freakishly realistic nightmare.

Of course not. His nightmares were always the same and fortunately, a sleepless night had freed him from the short hours of horror he went through _every_ night. 

He opened his tired eyes with restraint. The sunlight flowed through the dark curtains in his room and fawned over his face. 

_What time is it?_

Six in the morning? Seven? Half-past five?

Draco could not care less. He felt like staying in bed all day. Laying in, closing his eyes, trying to fall asleep and recuperate his lost energy would be easy.

Only today was the first day of classes. 

He was in _fucking_ school. What a _fucking_ joke.

He was in fucking school and he was sharing a dorm with fucking Granger.

Almost as if the universe was laughing at him in that instant― punishing for all the shite he had done. 

Watching him suffer was it’s new pass-time.

He pushed off the twisted sheets and instantly the cool air from the dormitory hit his bare skin, sending chills over his torso. He sat up, taking a minute for his muscles to stretch on their own accord. It had to have been later than he originally thought for the sun to have already made its appearance. 

Draco was startled by the slam of the bathroom door.

He heard the shower turn on. _Great_. He could hear fucking everything. 

He reached for his wand and muttered a quick _Muffliato._ The hum caused by the running water ceased. 

Draco slowly moved to the side of the bed and touched his feet to the cold floor. His stiff muscles made the walk towards the window a little painful. He shifted the curtains and let the streaming rays illuminate the room. From the window, he had a clear view of the black lake and part of the forbidden forest. He could even see the roof of the greenhouses. The sun was still rising up into the sky. The still waters glistening like crystals and the mist still hovering above the grass, clinging onto the bundle of trees. 

It was odd. Since he was eleven years old, he had always stayed in the dungeons. The only view was of the creatures inhabiting the lake. Draco couldn’t tell if he loved it or hated it. He settled on indifference. It was just― _different_. 

Then again, _everything_ was different. Therefore, it made sense.

He looked back towards his trunk. Still closed, unopened. He had not even changed last night, only removed his shirt, robes and socks. Gone to bed in his Hogwarts issued slacks. 

Fortunately, he had many pairs of those in his trunk, along with _many_ other things.

Draco was bewildered by the nature of it all. How _normal_ everything seemed. How calm and passive it was despite the unrest from the past. He was surprised, to say the least, of the situation― of himself. Rumours had said people went mad after only a few weeks in Azkaban. The Dementors, the sound of the waves, the loneliness… Somehow, he had not lost his mind. He had changed but he had not lost himself, _yet_.

He still had problems along with inner demons― but he had kept his right mind during those four months. 

It felt like the _only_ accomplishment he had ever succeeded.

Draco spared a glance around the room. The personalized places in this dorm were the rooms. His room had subtle emerald and silver accents. Not nearly enough as the obnoxious greens and silvers of the Slytherin dormitory but enough to exude his house pride.

He disliked the fact he was forced to share a common area with only the _Golden Girl_ for the entire year. 

Although, in some ways, he was glad to have his own space, his own room. Not having to share with anyone. He did not have to see anyone. It was his and no one could take it away from him.

Voldemort had taken _everything_ away from him. His family, his house, his childhood… 

He even held Draco’s life in his hands. 

Thanks to that monster, he was branded for life. Even with every good deed he could accomplish from now until his final breath, he would never be able to escape his past. Everyone would remember― _remind_ him at any chance they got. It did not matter if he became a better person— if he saved the fucking world. People would still see him as a traitor. Never as an equal. 

He supposed he deserved it.

* * *

She had an awful day. 

Not ten minutes into her first class, she could hear them. _The whispers_. The hushed voices of her peers talking about her. She could feel their eyes burning holes into the back of her head, watching her every move. 

She had downed a Calming Draught after History of Magic. It was her second Potion of the day― she _knew_ it would not be her last. 

The vial was pressing into her hip bone through the pocket of her robes. It felt― _dirty._ Like a secret she stashed away. 

In some ways she supposed it was. She hid it away from the world and her friends. She intended on keeping it herself.

Hermione had been shaking since breakfast but after her first class, it had only gotten worse. She had chosen to sit next to Theo in History of Magic. Over the course of that dreaded hour, at least three Gryffindor’s she had never bothered to learn the names of had given her dirty looks. She could almost hear their thoughts. As if, their conversation flowed through the room, directly into her ears. Like it was meant to do so. Much like the ones from the Great Hall, the previous night. 

She did not regret it, but she did not exactly like it either. At that moment, she desperately wished to be an Occlumens. It would be so easy, to just shut everything― everyone out. To just ignore the comments, the words spoken, the never-ending gossip and focus on Professor Binns.

It was not that easy though. It _never_ would be. The universe seemed to be against her in that way.

Theo was quiet all day. Much like he had always been. She had barely noticed him during the previous years. He always kept to himself. Other than the times he was with Malfoy, he just existed. She enjoyed his company. It was different from Ron and Harry who were always talking or asking for help. Theo was smart. They had the same level of intelligence, he did not nag her constantly with questions, and complaints about the assignments the professors had handed them.

Theo seemed to act the same even with his friends. 

She had seen him last night. He was still a very passive person. Although he did have his charms.

She had been a mess since the morning. Dark circles under her eyes, her hair flying everywhere, dropping books on the floor. Last night had been rough. Filled with nightmares. Hermione had been so tired she had forgotten to take her Potion before bed; this resulted in _terror_ after _terror_ after _terror_. A sleepless night had been her prize.

She had seen Malfoy just before leaving the dorm. He looked just as tired as she did. _Good._

If she had to suffer so did he.

When he’d seen her, he’d rushed out quickly, slamming the door, once again. 

She had gone to the Black Lake during lunch. She had no interest in going back to the Great Hall where a swarm of rumours were waiting to hit her square in the face again, so she avoided it. Like _most_ of her problems. She sat on the bank next to the small crashing waves and watched the water glisten from the sunny rays. It was warm, for a day in September. She had to remove her robes. Hermione enjoyed the silence that being alone offered her. Even if it was only for a few moments.

The halls were so crowded on her walk back to Potions Classroom; the students moved out of their way for her. They tilted their heads down, avoiding her gaze. Almost as if they were afraid of her. 

Everything she had been trying to avoid when taking on the Head Girl post came crashing down on her again. All the assumptions were now being proven.

A chill ran up her spine when she got to the dungeons, it was always so cold down here. The halls were deserted, there wasn’t a single soul except for her.

The door leading to the classroom was open and when she peered inside, Déjà-Vu hit her like a storm. Memories of sixth-year, brewing Amortentia, over-analyzing what she smelled, scolding Lavender for her lack of attention. 

It made her sick. She wanted to― no _needed_ to hurl.

She ignored every hint her body was giving her to leave. Instead, she walked into the class with calculated, measured steps and swallowed the bile forming in the back of her throat. She saw Theo from a distance, watching her carefully. He was standing next to Malfoy, in the left corner. It looked like he was almost hiding away in any darkness he could find. 

All the Slytherins did. It hadn’t escaped her notice how they lurked in dusty alcoves and empty corridors. 

It seemed like they avoided the crowded hallways at all costs

Professor Slughorn was standing near the bundle of students. Hermione quickly made her way next to Ginny.

Ginny was standing on the opposite side of Theo. Her eyes wide with horror as she drank in the sight of Hermione. She looked as if she had seen a ghost. 

“Why are you late?” the redhead’s eyes became even wider. They roamed over her figure; taking in her messed up hair and flushed cheeks. “You’re never late.”

She seems to be making assumptions about her appearance.

Hermione huffed. 

“I was at the lake. I just―” She turned her head towards Theo and he was already watching her. He gave a small smile. “Lost track of time.”

“What were you doing?” Ginny lowered her voice to a whisper, as the Professor started speaking to the group. “Why didn’t you come to the Great Hall?”

She felt the pressure again. The hidden glass vial in her pocket, its contents begging to be swallowed.

It was obnoxious and put Hermione on edge.

“I wasn’t hungry,” she stated, desperately trying to keep her tone as passive as possible. Trying to ignore the stares. “Can―” 

She was cut off by the sound of her name. “—and Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s head whipped towards the front of the class. Slughorn was staring at her as if he was waiting. For an answer, a reaction? She could not tell.

Her younger self would not be proud. She had no clue what was going on because she had been talking to her friend instead of listening to instructions, the same thing she used to scold her friends for doing.Her brows shot upwards as she observed the man in front of her.

Hermione noticed half the class was already seated. Mixture of colours swimming together.

One _red_ , one _green_.

“Miss Granger?” a rough voice pulled her back. 

“Yes?”

“May you please take your seat,” he gestured to a desk in the back row. She took careful steps towards the table and rolled her eyes once Slughorn was out of view.

 _Amazing_. Now she would have to―

She stopped dead in her tracks. 

He was there. Sitting. Minding his own _fucking_ business. But he was at the desk Professor Slughorn had gestured to. 

She made the reference, the mix of students… The odd pairs.

This was planned, Hermione was supposed to sit next to him.

Fucking Malfoy. _Again_.

She gritted her teeth to the point of pain. Her day was already terrible and now this.

She never thought it could have gotten worse. Sharing a dorm with Malfoy was punishment enough, nevermind sharing a fucking desk with him.

Hermione sighed in aggravation and stomped her way towards the desk. He was sitting with his chin resting on his fist. His knuckles seemed to blanch as she walked over but his gaze did not relent. His grey eyes were watching the cauldrons at the front of the class simmering and bubbling.

Hermione dropped her books on the wood surface and the sound ricocheted around the room. Malfoy’s eyes closed as if he was trying to calm himself— keep his emotions from returning to the surface.

She sat on the stool and ignored the deep bergamot scent of him clouding her senses. Ignored the way it relieved her shaking and made her feel almost— _dizzy_.

Hermione tried to ignore how good he smelled.

No. _No_.

She forced herself to breathe through her mouth for the rest of the lesson.

Halfway through the lesson, she glanced at Malfoy out of the corner of her eye and noticed he was tense. More than tense— _rigid_ and _stiff._ He avoided her gaze at all costs. She could see his flared nostrils. His eyes were cold and empty. She could barely make out any emotions swimming in them.

Hermione’s gaze drifted back to Slughorn explaining the process of producing a certain antidote, while her quill scratched robotically against the parchment.

~

The cool liquid slid down her throat. Burning the tender flesh, trying to give her a sign— a _signal_. Notifying her that she was soon reaching her limit. It was always the same process. When her body was reaching the maximum amount of Potions, she could consume, her throat would burn, she would start to feel slightly nauseous, and the shaking would get worse.

Hermione added the empty vial to the pocket of her robes. It hit the earlier one— she could hear the faint clinking of the vials bumping against each other. She felt a stab of guilt and shame— her truths revealing themselves once again.

She made her way up the dark staircase, it was past dinner. She had skipped it _once again_ , in lieu of making a trip to the library. She spent the next few hours sweeping the stacks, exploring the titles and subjects.

During the war, the library had been stripped. Many of the books burned; many had been removed and banned per Voldemort’s orders.

Between the new Hogwarts budget and donations collected over the last few months, Madam Pince had fully restocked the library and managed to replace copies of old books she loved, add hundreds of new novels and textbooks.

Hermione was _desperate_ for a change in literature, tired of the books from the library at Grimmauld Place; she had only been able to add so many charms to fit the books in her trunk, until the weight got unbearable. 

Her satchel was heavy and filled with what she had found. The seams were on the edge of ripping and sending the books flying down the staircase. She panted, carrying the weight of the books up the large staircase. She wanted to cast a _Feather-Light Charm_ but she then realized her wand was at the bottom of the satchel and she would have to remove all the books to grab it so she bore the weight.

At the top of the stairs, the portrait was sleeping. The man’s eyes were closed. He looked peaceful; she almost decided not to wake him.

“ _Confundit lucem tenebras_ ,” she spoke loud enough. The words still did not make sense to her, McGonnagall always had a reason for each password throughout the castle. She still pondered those four words; ‘ _Darkness blends with light_.’ 

The man shook awake and with a curt nod, the portrait door opened. 

When she made her way into the dormitory, she was faced with a bizarre sight. 

Malfoy was sitting in the common room, _reading_. A Muggle book, Nineteen Eighty-Four to be exact.

She questioned him. Why was he reading a Muggle book, written by a Muggle author? 

A few years ago, he would not have even touched the bloody thing. He would have scolded anyone who did.

Perhaps he wanted something new. Something different, but this did not explain why he would choose something so not _him_.

He lifted his head from the book when she entered. He tensed, as he had in class that same afternoon. She dropped her satchel to the floor and the drop of the books echoed. Hermione sighed as the pain minimized slightly.

“You seem to enjoy slamming books down, Granger,” he was looking at her now, not quite smirking but she could see the faint quirk of his lips. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and dropped to the floor. The first few books had finally made their way out of the bag, landing in ungraceful piles against the floorboards She piled the books on the ground as she searched for her things. She grabbed her wand first and tucked it into her robes, in its rightful place. 

She started digging for the scroll of parchment detailing her Prefect plans. She looked back towards Malfoy when she had hold of what she had been searching and he looked at her with an expression she could place as ‘ _Are you fucking serious_ ’ as he took in the mounted pile of books at her feet.

“We need to plan the Prefects meetings,” she shook the item in her hand. He rolled his eyes, setting the book back down on the coffee table. “Look Malfoy, I don’t want to spend a second more than I have to in your company but we have to do this or there will be consequences. Mostly for _you_.”

This brought back his attention. He stood up and sauntered away from the couch, closer towards her. 

“For your information, I really couldn’t care less about the consequences.”

She watched as he started making his way towards his room and this made her boil. She would not be punished for the simple ignorance of Draco Malfoy.

“I don’t really care about what you want, but I will not be paying the price because of you. So sit down and go over these plans with me,” she stated with a demanding tone. Usually, it worked on Harry and Ron but with Malfoy, Hermione could not be sure. He had the nature of bending the rules.

“And why should I?” he questioned, the small smirk still playing at his lips— it was condescending. He was toying with her _trying_ to get her angry.

“Because I know that you don’t actually want to go back to Azkaban,” Hermione carefully sat down on the Persian rug that donned the floor. She spread out the plans and ideas she came up with during her trip to the library. “ _Not really_.”

The vials dug into her hip again and she winced. 

When she brought her eyes back towards him, his jaw was clenched. His eyes were cold as if he was trying to shut something out— some _emotion_.

In that instant, she knew she had said something to aggravate him. She could only keep going.

“And you’re smart Malfoy, you know exactly where you’re going if you get kicked out of here,” she offered a small smile, mocking him. 

His eyes narrowed but he stayed still, hands in his pockets— waiting for something. 

“Save the mendacious remarks and get your arse over here so I can go to bed.”

He rolled his eyes, letting out the most dramatic sigh she had ever heard. He dropped back into the position she had found him in, a few minutes prior. Hermione rolled the scroll open and placed the book he had been reading on the corner to keep it from folding inwards. 

“May I ask why you were reading this book? You do realize it’s written by a _Muggle author_ ,” she placed another heavy textbook on the opposite side for the parchment so it was laying flat open in front of them.

“No you may _not_ because it’s none of your business, Granger,” he smiled back at her and she shrugged. 

Hermione crawled back a few steps to fetch a quill from her satchel. She added it to the collections of things on the coffee table.

“I went to see McGonagall a few hours ago and she gave me your timetable,” his eyes widened and his lips parted to reply. She lifted her hand. “Calm down. I looked at it and it seems we have about the same classes, same hours per se. This will make it easier to organize meetings and plan with the Prefects.”

Hermione pointed to the timetables on the scroll, he kept silent and listened to her.

“She also gave me the list of Prefects for the year. I had a look at it, everything seems to make sense. I know that your friends, she wasn’t really sure she could call them that, were given the seventh-year Slytherin spots,” Hermione scurried her hand, stretching out the parchment to reveal more notes. “ _Er…_ Theo and Parkinson.”

Malfoy's eyes widened, he obviously had not received this information, and the lot surprised him. 

“Did McGonagall say why they were chosen?” he kept his gaze trained on the names.

“Word of the Ministry— I believe.”

A silent pause washed over them as he went over the list of names, each Prefect from each house. 

“I think the best time for the meeting will be Thursday, it’s the most reasonable time for our schedules and it gives us a few days to get prepared,” when she looked up at him again, he was watching her. His eyes burned her— tiny little flames dancing behind the coldness of his irises. Her cheeks flushed.

“What’s your deal with Nott?” he asked as he sat back into the cushions. 

“Wh—what do you mean?” she was caught off guard. She was not prepared.

“I mean what is going on between you two—“ it felt more than a statement than a question. She felt his eyes on her _again—_ felt herself burn up, cheekbones burning crimson. 

“It’s not any of your business, is it?” she finally looked up at him and he was angry. Even behind his cold grey eyes, she could see the anger flaring.

“Well if you’re _fucking_ my best friend, Granger— I intend to make it my business,” her head snapped towards his.

“How dare you!”

“So… you’re not shagging— good to know,” he folded his hands in his lap and bit his lip as if to silence a chuckle or to hold back a smile.

“I don’t know what you’re going on about, Malfoy— nor do I _need_ to explain myself to you, but since you so rudely asked, no I am not _fucking_ Theo. He is my friend and that’s all.”

“But you want to,” Malfoy tilted his head to the side— toying, once again.

“What?”

“You want to fuck him.”

“ _No—_ “

“Just admit it, _Granger_. Your cheeks are so flushed you make it look obvious,” he smirked. Fucking smirked.

Hermione stood up; she ignored the clink of the vials clashing together. Ripped the parchment from the safety of the books. His book went flying across the common room and she caught hers just in time. She stuffed her things in the overflowing satchel.

“Don’t run away from me now, Granger.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” she seethed, packing up her things.

“No, you shut up for one second,” he got up from his seat. “I don’t know what you’re doing with Theo—“

“Do you ever stop? Has it ever occurred to you that people can have _friends_ , male friends without wanting to blow them! Seriously Malfoy, it’s not that deep and last time I checked, Theo didn’t even consider you as a friend anymore.”

She was angry now; it was raging up inside her. It had brought her to the point where she would explode if she did not get away from him. 

Hermione knew he would keep baiting her; he _liked_ to watch her get angry— enjoyed the feeling of seeing her in that state.

The coldness in him was back again, his narrowed eyes and the gritted teeth. She gave him one last glare and walked away from him towards her room, satchel in hand. 

She slammed her door shut. She hoped he was angry— seething at that moment. 

She knew her words were cruel but she hated him. Despised for his part in the war, for everything he had done, the pain he had caused. He deserved to feel guilty. 

He deserved to be losing his friends― because the choices he made brought on the loss of _hers_.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mnd1305) for more updates.


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